Post by Laopdate on Feb 10, 2005 7:09:23 GMT -5
Opinion
Carpe Simulacrum?
by Isaac Stone Fish
February 10, 2005
I am sitting in a tiny stupa—basically a dome-shaped reliquary—in the city of Luang Prabang, Laos, perched on a hill overlooking the Mekong. Buddha reclines in front of me on a metal bed, one arm outstretched, beckoning. Sitting Buddhas line the shelves encircling the room. Gods dance in paintings on the wall. I scribble these and other observations in my journal, but cannot transmit what I see into words. The camera in my pocket would capture this scene for me and show others.
But I hesitate. Why should I feel guilty about taking a picture of this stupa? Thousands of Westerners have done it before, showing it to thousands more; snapping a photo of it is neither prohibited nor infrequent. Nor is it a scene I feel will not photograph well; the sliver of light shining in from the doorway, and the rich inlays of the Buddha would be a beautiful memento of this trip years down the road. But I feel like I’m trespassing. I feel taking a photo would be like breaking off the finger of a statue, shoving it in a grubby bag, and bringing it home, exhibiting it as my own piece of Asia.
I remember the first Buddhist temple I visited, where my guide paid off the guards to let us take pictures. We ran through the temple, shooting rolls and rolls of film, flashing in dark areas, taking every angle of Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, not even looking but clicking at every glint of gold. I look at the pictures at home and see a dreary place. The only memories I have now of that temple are of trampling through it with my friends.
I have traveled places before where I did not bring a camera. I would wander the streets, staring at sights, trying to imprint them in my memory. Once, crossing a bridge, I peered over and saw two automobile skeletons, facing each other as if posed for battle, rotting in the riverbed below. My memory of this scene fades, and cannot be refreshed. Perhaps if I had taken a picture I would better remember what it felt like to stand by the side of that bridge, the railing pressing against my hand, smells of gasoline and decay.
The most captivating photographs invariably include people, but I feel nothing ruins the mood more than tourists with cameras around their necks capturing the hands of a peddler whittling by the side of the road. I love seeing those pictures, I love having taken those pictures, but I hate to see those pictures being taken. Holding a camera to one’s eye removes the scene’s immediacy, changes awareness of the present into concern for the future.
Entwined with this issue is the effect it has on the people being photographed, who consider their lives a reality and not a novelty to be catalogued. I remember seeing a Japanese photographer staring at me with curiosity. It made me feel dissociated from my life, yet it was good to be reminded that my life is just as real or as fake as the people of the countries I stare at and pigeonhole. When in the midst of something I want to remember, I find writing to be less obtrusive. Writing forces you to concentrate on the scene, to extract which of the stimuli you wish to set down in words. Still, to be fully immersed, one has to be living for the moment, not concerned with preserving it for others or a later version of oneself. But sometimes you want to have something more to show for your trip than personal growth and baubles.
I back out of the stupa, put on my shoes, and amble into another hall. I watch an Englishman carefully set up his tripod and photograph stacks of Buddhas lying against the wall. Some statues have partially destroyed faces, leaving only a crescent of stone to express eternal understanding. All the statues smile, except for the tallest one in the center. He stands with his arms outstretched, fingers up, palms forward, a peaceful, admonishing frown on his face. Amid chattering of voices and flashes of camera, I too capture this Buddha for my history.
Isaac Stone Fish is a junior majoring in East Asian Languages and Cultures.
Story: www.columbiaspectator.com/vnews/display.v/ART/2005/02/10/420ae5d597a2f
Photo: photos3.worldisround.com/photos/3/143/194.jpg
Carpe Simulacrum?
by Isaac Stone Fish
February 10, 2005
I am sitting in a tiny stupa—basically a dome-shaped reliquary—in the city of Luang Prabang, Laos, perched on a hill overlooking the Mekong. Buddha reclines in front of me on a metal bed, one arm outstretched, beckoning. Sitting Buddhas line the shelves encircling the room. Gods dance in paintings on the wall. I scribble these and other observations in my journal, but cannot transmit what I see into words. The camera in my pocket would capture this scene for me and show others.
But I hesitate. Why should I feel guilty about taking a picture of this stupa? Thousands of Westerners have done it before, showing it to thousands more; snapping a photo of it is neither prohibited nor infrequent. Nor is it a scene I feel will not photograph well; the sliver of light shining in from the doorway, and the rich inlays of the Buddha would be a beautiful memento of this trip years down the road. But I feel like I’m trespassing. I feel taking a photo would be like breaking off the finger of a statue, shoving it in a grubby bag, and bringing it home, exhibiting it as my own piece of Asia.
I remember the first Buddhist temple I visited, where my guide paid off the guards to let us take pictures. We ran through the temple, shooting rolls and rolls of film, flashing in dark areas, taking every angle of Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, not even looking but clicking at every glint of gold. I look at the pictures at home and see a dreary place. The only memories I have now of that temple are of trampling through it with my friends.
I have traveled places before where I did not bring a camera. I would wander the streets, staring at sights, trying to imprint them in my memory. Once, crossing a bridge, I peered over and saw two automobile skeletons, facing each other as if posed for battle, rotting in the riverbed below. My memory of this scene fades, and cannot be refreshed. Perhaps if I had taken a picture I would better remember what it felt like to stand by the side of that bridge, the railing pressing against my hand, smells of gasoline and decay.
The most captivating photographs invariably include people, but I feel nothing ruins the mood more than tourists with cameras around their necks capturing the hands of a peddler whittling by the side of the road. I love seeing those pictures, I love having taken those pictures, but I hate to see those pictures being taken. Holding a camera to one’s eye removes the scene’s immediacy, changes awareness of the present into concern for the future.
Entwined with this issue is the effect it has on the people being photographed, who consider their lives a reality and not a novelty to be catalogued. I remember seeing a Japanese photographer staring at me with curiosity. It made me feel dissociated from my life, yet it was good to be reminded that my life is just as real or as fake as the people of the countries I stare at and pigeonhole. When in the midst of something I want to remember, I find writing to be less obtrusive. Writing forces you to concentrate on the scene, to extract which of the stimuli you wish to set down in words. Still, to be fully immersed, one has to be living for the moment, not concerned with preserving it for others or a later version of oneself. But sometimes you want to have something more to show for your trip than personal growth and baubles.
I back out of the stupa, put on my shoes, and amble into another hall. I watch an Englishman carefully set up his tripod and photograph stacks of Buddhas lying against the wall. Some statues have partially destroyed faces, leaving only a crescent of stone to express eternal understanding. All the statues smile, except for the tallest one in the center. He stands with his arms outstretched, fingers up, palms forward, a peaceful, admonishing frown on his face. Amid chattering of voices and flashes of camera, I too capture this Buddha for my history.
Isaac Stone Fish is a junior majoring in East Asian Languages and Cultures.
Story: www.columbiaspectator.com/vnews/display.v/ART/2005/02/10/420ae5d597a2f
Photo: photos3.worldisround.com/photos/3/143/194.jpg